Perspectives
by JonesyAD
Summary: Jonathon Kent gets a helping hand from a "Knight" in a shining Mustang
1. The Long, Bad Day

Summary: Jonathon gets a helping hand from a "Knight" in a shining Mustang.  
  
"Perspectives"  
by: Jonesy  
  
Chapter One: The Long, Bad Day  
  
Jonathon Kent straightened his tie. He was haggard, and he knew it. Worse yet, the man accross from him knew it too. He rubbed his face and winced momentarily and his fingertips brushed along a healing cut that he received from shaving several hours earlier. After making sure he had not reopened the wound, he straightened his tie, again.   
  
After clearing his throat, Jonathon spoke, "Once again, Mr. Brighton, I want to thank you for seeing me personally."  
  
The man looked up from the file on the desk before him. He was in his mid thirties, Jonathan guessed. Although, he decided the man had not aged gracefully. His dark hairline was rapidly receding, but the corporate jetsetter had tried to grow what little hair he had on the back of his scalp and comb it foward. What resulted resembled much like a stack of molding hay had been scattered indiscriminately on top of the man's pale cranium. Jonathan tried not to stare.  
  
Jonathan quickly glanced away then looked at the man's eyes, though difficult through his coke bottle glasses, and saw his fate. And, it was not promising.  
  
"Mr. Kent, once again, you have an excellent credit record, but this loan is . . . Well it's just not a sound investment."  
  
Jonathon inched a little further up in his chair, "How can you say that? We've always paid on time and -"  
  
The man raised his hand to silence him, "Mr. Kent, please. You know as well as I that this is not a question of delinquency. I, however, see no reason why our bank should stake money on a claim, that by numbers, will simply not pay off."  
  
Jonathon could feel his blood pressure start to rise, "You don't understand, sir, how we can ever hope to get anywhere if we don't have the money to try and expand? Have a heart, man."  
  
Mr. Brighton closed the folder and steepled his finges, "Mr. Kent, you don't get far in this business by having a heart. I'm sorry, that's just the way it is, " he reached into breast pocket and retrieved a business card, "If you'd like, have your local representative call me, and I'll look into refinancing you current loan. That's all I can do for you."  
  
Jonathon stood up silently, and took the card. He slipped it into his pocket, trying hard not crush it has he did so. Brighton handed him the folder and glanced down at his desk, made no offer to shake his hand, and dismissed him by clearing his throat.  
  
Jonathon sighed and let his arms drop to his sides in defeat. He turned slowly and began to work his way over to the elevator. He entered the small shiny room and pressed the button for the lobby. With a polite ding the door began to close, and with it, his hopes.  
  
"Hold that, will you?"  
  
Jonathan quickly put his arm through the quickly closing gap between the doors, and they retreated at his touch. Another occupant now entered, slightly out of breath.  
  
He looked no more then twenty two or three, but carried himself much more maturely than a man of his age. He wasn't very tall, but he was broad, though his build was more lean than stout. The man's dark black hair and piercing blue-grey eyes reminded him of Jonathon's own son.  
  
The man cought his breath as the doors resumed their course shut and patted Jonathon on the upper arm in thanks, "You're the nicest guy I've met all day."  
  
Jonathon smiled in response and scratched the back of his neck, "No problem."  
  
The young man looked at Jonathon and noticed his loosened tie and haggard face. "Just get off a long shift?"  
  
Jonathon was not really interested in conversation right now, but he quickly remembered his manners and smiled slightly, "Oh, no. I don't work in the building."  
  
The polite, albeit talkative, man smiled, "Me either, I was just upstairs closing a deal. How 'bout you?"  
  
The older man sighed and ran his hands though his hair, "Something like that."  
  
The young man decided not to push the issue, noting the tone in his co-passenger's voice. He loosened his own tie just as the elevator came to rest in the lobby.  
  
The main offices had all closed hours ago, so all the occupants left in the building were either janitorial staff, security, or those who decided to chain themselves to their desk is some futile attempt to get ahead of the rat race.  
  
Even though the lobby and foyer were deserted, the young business man kept his distance from Jonathon, and the farmer was glad. He was not in the mood to be making any new friends, friends that were probably like that uptight sonofa-  
  
"Goodnight, sir, drive carefully," the night door man said as Jonathan Kent exited the large tower and ambled slowly into the parking area. With a tip of his hat, he also allowed the man from the elevator to exit as well.  
  
Jonathon Kent reached his blue pick-up and sat inside. After a second he decided to roll down the window. He cranked her down and with is other hand removed the tie that had been bothering him all night. He was very frustrated, and the cool night air offered him only the slightest comfort.  
  
The young man who had joined him in the elevator was coincidentally parked only a few spaces down from where the Kent family truck was. Jonathon observed the man open his car door and toss in his suit coat, giving no care to wrinkles, and then rolled down his own windows.  
  
Jonathon sighed, remembering what is was like to be young and care-free behind the wheel of a fast car, and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing, not even a clicking sound. He cursed to himself then looked at the console. He hadn't left the lights on, and the door hadn't been ajar.   
  
In frustration he punched the wheel and was met only by a pathetic honk from the truck's horn. That note, he mused, almost exaclty matched mood for mood what he felt right now.  
  
"Need a jump, friend?"  
  
Jonathon looked over and saw the man from earlier walking over. "Yeah, if you don't mind." Jonathan pulled the hood release and slid out of the driver's seat. "I'd really appreciate it."  
  
"No problem," he smiled and started walking back to his car, "What side is your battery on?"  
  
"The left."  
  
The man's car roared to life and with expert precision the young driver slid the car close next to the truck so that the driver's doors faced each other.  
  
Jonathon whistled as he got a better look at the car. It was an old ford, and resembled a mustang fastback though more sleek. The young man got out and unlocked the racing straps and lifted the hood. Jonathon knew enough about cars to know this thing had muscle, if the size of the engine was any indication.  
  
"Nice, a mustang isn't it?"  
  
The man smiled in appreciation, "Yeah, it's a '69 Mach One, though I've slighltly modified it." He retrieved jumper cables from his trunk and slung them over his shoulder, "Now, let's see what we can do for you, friend."  
  
The two men both attached their ends of the cable on the appropriate nodes on their batteries and slid behind the wheel of their repsective vehicles. The young man began revving the loud engine and gave Jonathon the thumbs up sign.  
  
Jonathon nodded in reponse and tried turning the key again. Nothing. After a few more failed attempts the man shook his head and retrieved his keys.  
  
The man with the 'stang frowned and retreived his cables. Before Jonathon could thank him for the try he had the truck's hood open again and was tinkering with a small tool kit.  
  
"Hey, you really don't have to-"  
  
The man cut him off, "Well I've got good news and bad news. I don't think it's your alternator. Although there's no spark out of your coil, but they're cheap to replace." He wiped his hands on a terry cloth towel and closed the hood, "But you aren't going anywhere in this soon, friend. Looks like this just isn't turning out to be your night."  
  
Jonathon sighed and leaned against his truck, "You have no idea."  
  
The man offered him a sympathetic glance, "Is there anywhere I can drop you, or call you a cab or something?"  
  
"No thanks, I can get a hotel room in walking distance. I'll have to worry about this in the morning."  
  
"You're not from around here?"  
  
"Nah, I'm from Smallville, a little town a couple of hours from here. I appreciate your offer anyway."  
  
"Hey, I'm not from around here either. I'm actually from Gotham City." He watched Jonathon shove his hands in his pockets and let out a long sigh. "Hold on a sec."  
  
The man retreived a cell phone from his car and dialed quickly, after a second he spoke, "Hey, it's me. Yeah, don't wait up for me tonight . . . No . . . I'm going to help out a stranded smalltowner. I want you to have a tow truck pick up a blue GMC pick-up at Twining Valley tower. I'll call you back later, thanks, Alfred."  
  
Jonathon was stunned, "Hey, you really don't have to-"  
  
He raised his hand to silence him, "Please, think nothing of it. Like I said, you're the nicest guy I've met all day. Get in, I'll give you a lift home."  
  
"Are you kidding, I don't even know you. You really don't have to go so far out of your way."  
  
"Don't worry about it, I'm used to late nights. I won't take 'no' for an answer, friend."  
  
Jonathon shook his head and disbelief and offered his hand, "Jonathan Kent."  
  
"Nice to meet you, sir, I'm Bruce." Both men offered a firm handshake and Bruce grinned, "Now, hop in."  
  
***  
  
Jonathon's faith in humanity had been destroyed then restored all in one night. Bruce reminded him, he decided, a lot of Clark. Both were friendly, and seemingly generous to a fault.  
  
In the few hours that Jonathon knew the boy he decided that he liked him. He was polite and respectful, and nowhere near fit the description of some stuffy city business man from Gotham.  
  
"So you're from Gotham City?"  
  
"Yes, sir, guilty as charged."  
  
"I have to say you're awfully polite, you must have had good parents."  
  
He seemed to brood on something for just a second, "Yeah -- I did." Jonathon was afraid that he might have alienated the boy by his off hand comment. Suddenly, Bruce looked up, "You might want to down shift into this curve."  
  
Jonathon gave him a rougish smile, "Just watch, my boy." Jonathon raced the RPMs into the red, then hit the clutch twice in rapid succession, successfully pulling of a double clutch shift. The car hugged the curve then lurched forward into a straight away, chirping the tires in fourth gear.  
  
Bruce let his grip loosen from the door handle and looked at the older man, "You drive like you've done this before."  
  
Jonathon smiled, "When I was a kid I used to have an old Charger. She could have flown if she had wings."  
  
Bruce smiled, "I figured you for a Mopar man."  
  
"Thanks for letting me drive me this baby again."  
  
Bruce shrugged, "Hey, you're the one who knows the way. I've never been if here before."  
  
***  
  
Jonathon handed Bruce a cold beer and joined him on the porch. "Well they're both asleep," he said quietly as he closed the screen door behind him.  
  
Bruce popped open the cap and took a quick pull, "Martha and Clark, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, that's my family." He took a long drink from his bottle and leaned against the railing, "I'd do anything for them."  
  
Bruced smiled as he took another pull, "They're lucky to have a husband and dad like you."  
  
Jonathon shook his head, "No, a good man would be able to provide for his family."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"It's really not your problem, Bruce. Something a man has to work out on his own." He finished his beer and rubbed his chin, as an afterthought he took out the business card the banker, Mr. Brighton had given him.  
  
Bruce moved over next to him and looked at it, "MetroBank? Were you having money trouble?"  
  
"They turned down my loan."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"Mr. Brighton thought my farm wasn't a sound business investment. We do organic farming here, and I guess the market doesn't seem a lot of return on that kind of thing. If he could just see how hard I would work, I know I could provide a better future for all of us." He sighed yet again, then scratched the back of his neck.  
  
Jonathon and Bruce finished their beers in silence.   
  
Finally Jonathon crossed over to the door, "Sorry, like I said, it's not your problem. Do you want another one?"  
  
Bruce shook his head absently, "No thanks, I'm driving." He handed Jonathon his empty bottle and then put his hands in his pockets to ward off the chill brought about by a sudden breeze.  
  
Jonathon returned from the house with another beer and sat on the porch swing. After a second Bruce joined him, "Let me see that card again."  
  
"Sure, it won't do me any good," he said passing the card over to him.  
  
Bruce took out a pen and scribbled another phone number on the card and passed the card back to him, "Tell Mr. Brighton to call this number, I don't think getting a loan would be all that difficult."  
  
Jonathon frowned, "I don't understand."  
  
"Jonathon, did I tell you my last name?"  
  
He shrugged, "I never thought to ask."  
  
Bruced stood and moved over to the steps, "It's Wayne."  
  
Suddenly, Jonathon stood, "Bruce Wayne?"  
  
Bruced nodded, "Thanks for your hospitality, Mr. Kent. I'm sure we'll meet again sometime. I'll have your truck sent down in the morning.  
  
"Thank - Thank you, Mr. Wayne."  
  
"Come on now, just a minute ago it was Bruce," he said with a lopsided grin.  
  
Jonathon and Bruce shook hands, "I mean it, thanks for everything."  
  
"Like I keep saying, you're the nicest guy I've met all day."  
  
Jonathon smiled, "Let's just hope the bank thinks the same thing."  
  
Bruced smiled and began walking to his car, "I wouldn't worry about the bank -- I own it."  
  
Jonathon blinked, this really was the Bruce Wayne, "Well, aren't you worried this is a bad investment?"  
  
Bruce opened his driver's door and for a second just looked at the farm. Then he turned his gaze back to Jonathon, "I prefer to believe in people."  
  
Jonathon, for the first time all day, let a genuine smile cross his face, "Me too."  
  
The 1969 Mustang Mach One grumbled to life and slowly growled down the small road on the Kent's farm. It turned onto the paved road and quickly flew up the way it had came, after a second Jonathon could only see it's tailights. After another second, it was gone.   
  
Martha Kent walked out onto the porch pulling on her robe and yawning loudly, "What's all that noise?" She looked at the bottles on the porch rail, "Have you been out here drinking?"  
  
Jonathon swept her up in his arms amd pulled her close, "We're going to be alright, Martha."  
  
"You have been drinking!"  
  
He only laughed and smoothed down her red hair with his hands, "I think we got the loan."  
  
She suddenly hugged him fiercly, "Jonathon that's wonderful." For a moment they stayed in each others embrace, letting their relief seep into each other. After a moment, Jonathon felt his wife tense, "Sweetheart, where's the truck?"  
  
***End***  
  
Next Time: "Revelations at the Hibachi Grill" 


	2. Revelations at the Hibachi Grill

Author's Note: Thanks for all the kind reviews, you guys are great. Sorry for any spelling and grammar errors that got by me, I'll try harder next time.  
  
Summary: The Kent family and friends spend an evening out in Metropolis to celebrate the farm's expanding business, at the invitation of Jonathon's new friend.  
  
"Perspectives"  
by: Jonesy  
  
Chapter Two: Revelations at the Hibachi Grill  
  
To put it simply, John "Deuce" Drummond was a lookout. He didn't see it that way, of course, but for all intents and purposes the teenager was merely watching for cops.   
  
According to Deuce, he was providing a very intrical service to a group of his constituents inside the room he was standing silent guard over. Although the abandoned "Gotham 9 Motel" was not exactly a glamorous locality, he could always work his way up.  
  
He put his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans to ward off a sudden chill. The full moon provided pale light over the windy, cracked, and weeded (not to mention secluded and starkly surreal) parking lot. Deuce, suddenly warding off a chill in his spine not brought on by the cool night's air, glanced over his shoulder.  
  
The dim yellow light in the motel room allowed shadows to pass over the window's torn curtains and Deuce shuddered to think what was going on at that very moment. His older brother and three of his friends had robbed a state store earlier that evening and, moreover, kidnapped the young female (and very terrified) clerk.  
  
The boy lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He let the smoke curl from his mouth as he abandoned his gaze at the lonely parking lot to focus on the dancing shadows within the room.  
  
Deuce was seventeen and while, admittedly, he had never been with a girl before, he knew well what his brother and his friends had intended. He pressed the thoughts from his mind. Deuce was in. That's all that mattered, he was part of something now. Somebody needed him, relied on him for something important.  
  
What happened next would haunt the boy long after his stay in jail that night, or his overnighters that would occur later in his misguided life.  
  
A new shadow passed over the light now, but this shadow took form behind him and he could feel its presence. The boy trembled as he ripped his pensive gaze away from those tattered curtains and gasped at the terror before him.  
  
He would later describe the specter to police as resembling a giant, horrifying, black bat.   
  
In motions too fast for Deuce's mind to really comprehend, the bat/man was merely inches in front of him. Pure and unadulterated fear locked the scream in the boy's throat as he could do nothing but stare into soulless dark eyes.  
  
Deuce felt a sharp pain in his neck and a strong arm grab him, and then, there was nothing.  
  
Deuce's older brother, Jerry, very inebriated and half naked, stumbled from the room. With a croaking laugh he slurred, "Hey, bro, you can have what's left over in there."   
  
For a moment he chose to laugh loudly at his clever observation, then noticed his little brother was gone. He blinked as the bright moonlight stabbed at his eyes and he belched before saying, "Hey, where in the -"  
  
He was cut off by a heavy fist to the stomach. Too unfocused to see who had delivered the blow, he was content to vomit on the porch and pass out in the resulting pool of bodily fluid.  
  
The shadow-cloaked bat moved beyond the human heap, silencing his disgust, and proceeded to reap havoc inside. He took the first drunk down with one blow to the head and sent his body through the bay window.   
  
The second cohort, who had been sitting at the small table doing lines, was satisfied to scream as the dreadful black hallucination picked him up and sent him through the window as well.  
  
The third palooka, who appeared more semi-lucid than his brethren, grabbed an over turned chair and flung it at his attacker. The amalgam of bat and man seemed to brush it aside and continued forward.  
  
Enraged, the young man lunged at the figure in black. The ghostly bat deflected the man's flimsy jabs and grabbed him by the sides of his head.  
  
The young man pounded on the bat's unprotected sides, yet he stood unflinching. One look at the shadow's hard eyes drained the youth of his beer muscles and he attempted to break free of his grasp.  
  
Obliging, the man-bat flung the frightened teen into an ancient television. He writhed for a few seconds before finally attempting to stand. Fortunately, he failed, and remained still.  
  
The lone figure turned his attention to a young girl in the corner. From her fetal position, he could only really make out the fact she was breathing, but only barely.  
  
He silently wrapped her in a ratty comforter and laid her on the bed. After a moment she began to cry softly and let her matted blond hair dry her tears. Without words the Batman left the room.  
  
What seemed like an eternity later, sirens filled the air outside.  
  
***  
  
Sargent Jim Gordon rubbed the back of his neck and waved away a cup of coffee as he stood in the parking lot of the Gotham 9. Several feet away officers were snapping pictures and escorted five suspects into squad cars.  
  
One of the officers broke away from the group and walked over, "Same story, Sarge: big, tall, and pointy ears. The third time this month."  
  
Gordon reached for a cigarette and glanced over at the crime scene, "Yeah, I heard the statement," Jim ignored the subject and looked back at the officer, "What's the deal here?"  
  
"Well, the older four we have on tape robbing a liquor store earlier, and making off with the girl."  
  
Sargent Gordon lit his cig and nodded towards the ambulance, "How is she?"  
  
"Broken ribs, cuts, bruises, the sort of thing. Was a crying wreck, still is. Too bad our friend didn't get here earlier."  
  
Jim let out of puff of smoke and threw away the cigarette, "Yeah, too bad." He crushed the butt with his shoe and walked over to the porch.  
  
He observed the crime scene and noted the general disarray of the room. One man had done all this, and he had seen much worse in earlier incidents. "Who the hell are you? You dangerous sonofabitch."  
  
***  
  
"Clark Kent, if you're not down these stairs and dressed in one minute we're leaving without you!"  
  
Martha leaned over to Chloe Sullivan and whispered, "Sweetheart, I really appreciate the effort, but that's really my job." The womenfolk had a laugh as Jonathon Kent and his son trooped down the stairs.  
  
Clark and Jonathon were dressed to the nines and both men looked a little uncomfortable with the prospect. They both tugged at their collar in an identical fashion excising a laugh from the little blonde.  
  
Clark gave the teen editor a cross look, "Who invited you again?"  
  
Chloe feigned a hurt expression and slapped him playfully on the chest, "As I recall, young Mr. Kent, you practically begged me to come along."  
  
Clark shook his head, "No, no, as I seem to recall someone decided to repeat the mantra 'Clark, please can I come' until I decided to cave in!"  
  
She shrugged letting a grin spread across her face, "It's all relative. You begged, I begged, who's keeping track?"  
  
"Children, please. Our ride is here, " Jonathon said opening the front door for Martha and Chloe, then patted his son on the back as the two closed up the house.  
  
Chloe let a low whistle at the chariot awaiting them. It was a limousine, she was sure of that, but it resembled more of a classic car than a new flashy limo rich folks would jet-set in.  
  
Jonathon leaned over to Martha "Looks like an old Continental, really sharp."  
  
"I'll be sure to convey your appreciation to Master Bruce."  
  
The quartet turned to see a kindly old man in a tuxedo holding the rear door open for them. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I'll be your driver for this evening."  
  
The older gentlemen held out his hand and helped the ladies into the rear of the long and slender vehicle. Clark was next as he entered with a large grin on his face.  
  
Jonathon stopped and offered the man his hand, "You must be Alfred?"  
  
The older man smiled and shook his hand, "Well met, Mr. Kent, well met." Jonathon entered last and Alfred politely closed the door behind him.  
  
The limo turned over with a respectable rumble and she pulled onto the lane that connected the Kent farm with the local road. Alfred politely informed his passengers that they would be arriving at their destination in a matter of a few short hours and to feel free to employ all of the car's luxuries.  
  
The Kents and their young inquisitive guest decided to do just that. Martha decided to open the car's refrigerator and smiled at the assortment of fine wines for such a small space, and noted a six pack of root beer along with a post-it note with "For the Kids" in calligraphic script.  
  
Clark and his father almost immediately discovered that the small television mounted on the ceiling of the car received well over one hundred and fifty channels, was party to seven sports stations, and provided a direct feed station that played highlights from Mr. Wayne's favorite teams continuously.  
  
Chloe found herself engrossed in a lap top computer which seemed to use the TV's satellite for instant internet access. She was disappointed to note that no highly sensitive Wayne Enterprises documents were saved therein, and further more, that the whole hard drive seemed to consist of entirely MP3 files. About the only thing she would likely report about this evening was that Bruce Wayne had a seemingly unwholesome collection of Elvis Presley tunes.  
  
While no one watched she checked in on the Torch's hit counter a total of twelve times on the way to Metropolis.  
  
Clark looked out the window quickly as his sensitive hearing picked out the sound of a fastly approaching car. He leaned over and saw a sleek black car pull up and keep pace with them for a second.  
  
"Hey, dad, what kind of car is this?" Clark looked over his shoulder at his father who was glued to the Sharks and Knights game, "Pop?"  
  
Jonathon glanced over and squinted out the window, "What car, son?"  
  
Clark looked back and saw that the car had raced ahead and was now on the exit ramp to Metropolis. Alfred then announced that they were in fact following the same course and would be arriving at the restaurant very shortly.  
  
The passengers tidied up the area and left all as they had found it. Jonathon put his arm around Martha as she looked fondly at the bright lights of the city she had once called home, he kissed her tenderly on her temple.  
  
Chloe smiled at the scene and nudged the younger Mr. Kent and gave him an elusive smile, and for some reason that made him very nervous.  
  
***  
  
The Samurai's Honor was a decent sized restaurant. It had two large dining areas, one of them consisting of two large Hibachi grills. It had a sushi bar near the entrance and a small wet bar next to that.   
Clark especially liked the decor. Old suits of Samurai armor, katanas, nodachis, and several scrolls incased in glass littered the main eating arena.  
  
The young man also noticed that the staff was very professional, and he decided, polite to a fault. As soon as the host noticed that they were the personal guests of Mr. Wayne they began fawning over them immediately.  
  
A young waiter led them into a room above the kitchen where there was a single Hibachi grill and four places elegantly prepared before it. The waiter took their drink order after they were seated and left quickly.  
  
Alfred appeared in the doorway briefly and clasped his hands in front of him, "Mr. Wayne arrived slightly ahead of you and begs you to wait only a moment. He sends his apologies and will be down shortly." With a polite nod, he left.  
  
"Down? This place has another floor? Must be nice to be rich," Chloe commented quietly to Clark, who merely shrugged and noisily gulped down a glass of water, "Very classy, Kent."  
  
She looked around the room and finally her eyes fell on the cook's tray, which was orderly arranged near the entrance of the grill. An apron was neatly folded on the bottom of the small cart, and a worn-from-use brown belt sat on top of it, holstered with two side pockets.  
  
She looked up and saw which would clearly occupy those holsters, two brightly gleaming knives. Her hands twitched to get a closer look.  
  
"Be careful, they're sharp," Chloe looked up, startled by the firm voice.   
  
The young man that entered the room smiled politely at them all as he removed a black suit coat and slung it on a coat rack in the corner of the small room. His grey eyes took them all in briefly and he walked over.  
  
"Jonathon, nice to see you again," their hands met in a firm grasp and the boy billionaire patted him on the shoulder, compelling him not to stand, "please, don't get up."  
  
The man gave Martha a polite peck on the cheek, "Martha, nice to meet you again. It's nice to see you can dress up these farm boys for a night on the town."  
  
She smiled demurely and kissed his cheek in return, "A mother's work is never truly done, Bruce."  
  
"Truly," he said nodding.   
  
He then offered his hand to Clark who took it with a smile, "And this must be Clark, I've heard a lot of good things about you. Strong handshake you have there, just like your pop."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne."  
  
Bruce winked, "I'm only a few years older than you, we can dispense with the 'misters.' "  
  
He then set his gaze on Chloe and politely shook her hand, "Ah, you must be Clark's girlfriend? Chloe right?"  
  
The two teens looked at each other awkwardly and Bruce cleared his throat, "I'm so sorry, I merely assumed," he said looking away, then looking back he continued, "So, who's hungry?"  
  
Martha looked around confused for a moment, "Where are you sitting, Bruce?"  
  
He smiled as he slid behind the grill, "I'm not, I'm cooking. Don't worry, I'm quite good."  
  
The waiter returned with their drinks as Bruce adorned the apron and slung the belt low across his waist. The four decided on their entrees and the waiter excused himself.  
  
Bruce whistled softly as he began to prepared fried rice. The dinner guests watched quietly as he sauteed different vegetables with white rice and slid them off to the side. Next, he took a spatula and tossed it behind his left shoulder and caught it with his right hand, giving it a twirl.  
  
He positioned the spatula so that the edge was perpendicular to the grill and slightly above it. He took an egg, tossed it over the same shoulder, and it landed perfectly on the edge of the spatula. The yoke landed on the grill and began to sizzle, the shell remained on the edge, not fully cracked in half. Bruce tossed the shell away, and repeated the trick with another egg.   
  
As he began to scramble the egg and flatten it, Jonathon applauded the trick. Chloe grinned as well, "I didn't know your plethora of skills ventured into exotic culinary arts, Mr. Wayne."  
  
He smiled and turned his attention to the flattened egg. He held the flap of yoke down with a cooking fork, then proceeded to rapidly chop at it with his spatula. The precisely aimed pieces quickly flew into the sizzling mound of rice and vegetables.  
  
He twirled the fork like a gun slinger, then holstered it. As he distributed the rice to his guests he explained, "Well, Chloe, I spent a couple of years in Japan and I became fascinated with Hibachi cooking. I devoted a lot of study to the practice."  
  
Without breaking eye contact with her he twirled one of the knives around his hand, then behind him, and into the empty holster on his left. She smiled, "I can see that."  
  
Bruce entertained them with a few tricks, including a volcanic onion, before the waiter once again returned with their food. Bruce placed the entrees on the grill and they began to sizzle.  
  
"So, Jonathon, my drones tell me the farm is doing well," Bruce smiled as he diced Clark's chicken on the grill.  
  
Jonathon swallowed a mouthful of the rice and replied, "Yeah, I actually hope to repay the loan in just a few seasons."  
  
"Very, admirable, Jonathon. I knew you were a good investment."  
  
Jonathon smiled appreciatively, "I'm just glad I had the opportunity to prove myself."  
  
Bruce nodded, "And you delivered." He presented Clark and Chloe with their chicken and shrimp followed shortly by Jonathon's and Martha's identical order.  
  
Chloe savored the taste of the shrimp and deftly moved her chopsticks with skill that spoke volumes of previous experience. Clark, however, broke three pairs of chopsticks before finally getting the idea: one had to stab the food with the stick and then stick it quickly in your mouth.  
  
Bruce looked at his company with amused and appreciative eyes and drank deeply from a large glass of ice water. After he had cooked the remains of the food, he cleaned the grill by applying vinegar and oil and lighting the whole thing on fire, then wiping it with a warm towel.  
  
Martha paused between bites, "You're not having any?"  
  
Bruce smiled, "Afraid not, Alfred keeps me on a very strict diet."  
  
Clark chose to talk with his mouth full, "That's a shame, this is really good."  
  
Martha reprimanded him but Bruce shook his head, "No, I take that as a compliment."  
  
As Mr. Wayne's dinner guests finished their plates, the silent waiter cleared them and refreshed their drinks. As the four sat stuffed they began to chat idly with their cook and seemed to forget that he was one of the richest men in the world.  
  
He leaned causally against the grill, taking long pulls from his glass, and talking about either the Sharks with the boys, or exotic romantic locales with the ladies.  
  
Chloe was especially surprised to find out just how human the man behind Wayne Enterprises was, but also seemed to catch something more than he was letting on. She told herself she was being silly, but there was something about his eyes that was incredibly sad.  
  
Funny, she continued, she could almost compare that same look in Clark's eyes occasionally. Not that she looked at his eyes all the time or anything.  
  
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, just as Alfred appeared in the door way. His kindly old face was uncharacteristically somber, "Master Bruce, I have an urgent message."  
  
Bruce politely excused himself and walked over to the doorway. He began to scratch the back of his left leg with his right toe when Alfred told him something quickly and quietly.  
  
His leg dropped at the same as his facial expression. Both had been grounded. Jonathon, Martha, and Clark politely looked away, but Chloe looked on.  
  
For a moment the billionaire lost control of his voice, "When did this happen? How did this happen?"  
  
Alfred shook his head and looked like for all the world he wanted to embrace the young man like a son. Bruce, however stiffened and looked at his feet for a moment.  
  
"Alright, make arrangements. I want the Wayne Foundation to cover all the expenses." Alfred nodded and left quietly.  
  
Bruce stood at the doorway for a moment then turned, a clearly false smile on his face. "Well folks, I'm going to go wash up. It was a pleasure to have you here. The waiter will bring you desert and then Alfred will take you home."  
  
He bowed politely, "If you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a response, he departed.  
  
Jonathon and Martha exchanged a glance and Jonathon quietly stood up. "I'll be right back, start desert without me." Clark silently patted his father on the forearm as he left and made his way to the stairs.  
  
Chloe looked confused, "Where is he going?"  
  
Martha and Clark looked at each other.  
  
***  
  
Bruce flung papers from his desk and slammed the chair in frustration. With grim determination he hammered on the punching bag in the corner, raining blows without stopping.  
  
He didn't notice the polite knock at the door, so his visitor cleared his throat, "Am I interrupting anything?"  
  
Bruce spun on his heel and regarded Jonathon Kent with tired, hurt eyes. After a second his emotional mask reasserted itself, "Jonathon, sorry about that, didn't hear you. It desert alright?"  
  
Jonathon didn't break eye contact and Bruce seemed to almost flinch under his gaze, "Everything's fine. Is there something you need to talk about, son? You looked pretty upset back there."  
  
Bruce felt a pang in his heart at the word "son" but didn't crack. He walked over to his desk and picked the papers from the floor and deposited them back in a neat pile.   
  
"Listen, maybe it's none of my business, I was just concerned." The farmer moved to leave.  
  
Bruce exhaled and motioned for Jonathon to stay, "I just received very disturbing news is all." He collapsed in the leather chair and ran his hands over his face and through his hair, "Jonathon, have you ever felt helpless?"  
  
Jonathon was caught off guard by the powerful man's candid and heartfelt question. He recovered and considered it, then responded, "Every day of my life. I don't know that there's anything in this world that can't change without feeling that they don't need to get permission from us first."  
  
Bruce nodded slowly, "So there's no hope, then?"  
  
Jonathon put his hands is pockets and considered his response, "Oh, there's hope, but it's up to you to make the difference. Fear is healthy, self-paralysis isn't."  
  
Bruce replied flatly, "I'm not afraid."  
  
Jonathon moved over to his chair and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Then what's holding you back?"  
  
Jonathon felt Bruce tense as he debated the issue in his mind, clearly not getting resolution, "Listen, Bruce, take a couple of days off, come down and stay on the farm. A little peace and quiet might do you some good."  
  
He considered it, and for a moment Jonathon felt stupid for asking.   
  
Bruce looked up, "You wouldn't mind?"  
  
***  
  
Jim Gordon sighed heavily as the elevator stopped on the third floor of Gotham General Hospital. He continued down the corridor and approached room G 317 with distinct hesitation.  
  
He had sworn off this God forsaken place after his wife had passed on here last year of complications during child birth. Barbara was living with her mother's sister while he tried to get reassigned, and both seperations had taken their tole on the man's heart.  
  
A uniformed officer met him at the police tape covering the entrance to the room. Silently he let the Sargent pass and both men re-entered G 317.   
  
Lisa Phillips, the girl supposedly rescued by the Batman from an abandoned hotel two nights before was dead.  
  
Jim looked over at the officer. The officer shook his head slowly, "They found her like this a couple of hours ago. They say it happened just after her counseling session."  
  
Lisa had hung herself with her belt in the bathroom. Tears still stained the girl's pale face.  
  
Jim's jaw twitched, if this was the consequence of that vigilante's crusade on crime, then by all means he would begin his own. His target: Batman.  
  
*** End ***  
  
What to expect next time:   
Lex Luthor shooting pool and driving fast *surprise*  
Lana Lang  
A drag race  
Spud Guns and good old fashioned country fun  
  
Next: "A Hemi vs. the Heart" 


End file.
